Poured Out Like Water
by Anera527
Summary: Harry, tortured at the hands of Voldemort, is finally found by the Order. It is up to Hermione to save him- will she have the strength? Harry has forgotten himself- will he remember the power of Love? Rated T for torture scene in first chapter.
1. Chapter 1

"_**Poured Out Like Water"**_

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own any of the quotes or songs I reference in this fanfic.**

___"But____I am a worm and not a man, scorned by men and despised by the people…. I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me. My strength is dried up like potsherd, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth: you lay me in the dust of death. Dogs have surrounded me: a band of evil men has encircled me, they have pierced my hands and my feet… people stare and gloat over me…. Deliver my life from the sword, my precious life from the dogs. Rescue me from the mouth of the lions; save me from the horns of the wild oxen."~_

_ ~Psalms 22; 12-21_

"Potter!"

The rough growl jerked him awake from a restless doze, making him jump in surprise. He couldn't stop the groan of pain that came from the back of his throat as the unexpected movement sent ripples of agony through his broken body. Standing above him was the familiar face of the Death Eater who frequently guarded him, a large, burly man with a twisted mouth and sneering ice-cold eyes. The man leered at him.

"Not so high-and-mighty now, are you, Potter?" he laughed coldly, and without warning he brought his foot down on the boy's outstretched right hand. Bone, only recently re-healed, crunched and snapped beneath the unforgiving weight, and Harry's pained scream echoed in the room in which he was held. The Death Eater laughed again and stepped back to see the boy going white from pain, whimpering but unable to do anything to protect himself, tied as he was by his enemy's power. "Get your sorry ass ready—you'll be visited by the Dark Lord soon." With one last sneering smile, and a swift kick to the ribs that caused another pained outcry, the man turned and left, laughing at the agony he had caused.

It was a dark, dank prison in which Harry Potter was being held, where the air itself seemed dead and stifling; the darkness crushed dreams, its slimy, clammy grip squeezing anyone caught in it of life and hope. It was very easy to lose sense of oneself there, where there was no lifeline of human kindness to hold onto. In it, struggling with the agony that was his body, Harry was fighting to remember himself.

How long had he been down here? Two weeks? Three weeks? A month? Time had no meaning in a black hole such as this, with its merciless maw that devoured any innocent soul who passed through. He had not seen the sun in weeks, nor had he seen any life besides Voldemort and his Death Eaters who came to jeer at him. In Voldemort's impenetrable stronghold, they knew Harry was as good as dead. The date of the actual dying had not yet been set, but he knew it as well as they.

Voldemort had broken him. Death would naturally follow. In that black room of despair where hope failed, Harry tried to block out the pain of his broken hand, trying to shift and gasping as bones rubbed together. Many of the bones in his body were out of joint slightly from when Voldemort had broken them and then mended them just as easily. At eighteen years of age, Harry did not look like a child, nor even the boy he was—no, after dozens of sessions of torture, Harry was little more than a shadow of his former self, emaciated, covered in dirt and blood, his shaggy black hair tangled and blood matted, his eyes sunken and dead. He had little strength after Voldemort's torture, and he had long since given up speaking. So he lay there in the dark and waited for something to give.

He groaned again as pain lanced up his fingers. He did not care about pride here—he screamed his pain and agony, cried until his throat was raw and throbbing. The Death Eaters delighted in his creams, and Voldemort goaded him further into pain and loss, laughing until their voices were raised in some twisted duet.

Everything in this place was twisted, perverted, made so confusing and dark that the earth seemed upside down, like a morbid retelling of Alice in Wonderland. Shadows became a refuge, light was something to fear. There was no such things as warmth there in the depths of this cesspool of despair—all that existed for Harry was the cold, slimy stone, the awful stench of decay and the wetness that pervaded the air. He lost himself in mental wanderings through some far-away corner of his mind where he was safe.

Safe, that is, until Voldemort's torture forced him back out, where he was confronted again and again with the ruin that was himself. Life was laughed at, death was something to welcome. He was taunted, belittled, ridiculed, and assured that those professed to be his friends had abandoned him.

And he had begun to believe it, even if he knew in his moments of complete clarity that that was exactly what Voldemort wanted. The Dark Lord wanted the boy completely crushed, utterly unrecognizable, before life was finally ended, so he could boast that he destroyed everything Harry Potter had been and jeer in his enemy's anguish.

That thought would have made Harry fight even more fiercely to defeat Voldemort before, but he barely remembered that old side of him. It had been starved and beaten and screamed out of him. Was he even still human? Did it even really matter?

The end was there, so close he could taste it, and if he could remember how to cry he would have.

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"Ah, Harry," came a familiar silky voice a short while later, and Harry immediately curled into a fetal position, desperate to protect himself from what he knew to be a monster. Mentally, he had retreated into himself like he usually did before Voldemort's arrival, hunkered down in a maze of World War I- style trenches until the Dark Lord forced him out again. Before then, however, he seemed physically as vacant as a feral child, nothing more than a cornered animal driven by instinct. The Death Eaters who had followed Voldemort in laughed seeing him on the floor, reveling in the power they felt proud to hold. They were monsters, every single one of them, twisted by the evil that they lived in.

Leading them was Lord Voldemort himself, a tall, skeletal creature that looked more like a snake than a man, with bone-white skin, a thin lipless mouth, a face with no nose, and eyes that shown as red as the blood he liked to spill. He was evil itself, Beelzebub incarnate, just as conniving and just as deadly. He hissed a laugh, sounding as much like the snake currently wrapped around his shoulders, and dutifully the Death eaters around him silenced immediately, still smirking, their eyes bright with eagerness. They knew what was going to happen.

So did Harry. He pressed himself to the harsh, cold wall of his physical prison, curled into a tight ball, his breathing already heavy and panicked. Voldemort stopped before him, looking down at him with a ghastly smile that deepened the inhumanity of his face. "Now, now, Harry," he admonished him in a low, silky tone, "that is no way to greet your visitors. Won't you speak for us?" He hissed a laugh again when Harry shook his head. "No? No, my pet? You won't speak for us? You must know the penalties for that. _Crucio_!"

The familiar agony ripped through Harry's body like flame, erupting along the weakened bones that had been recently healed, and he screamed as he writhed on the floor. Naked skin rubbed itself raw against the stone, drawing blood, as on and on it went. When finally Voldemort let the curse end, he fell limply to floor, whimpering his pain.

"Are you ready to speak now, Harry?" the Dark lord asked with a vindictive smile laced with warning. His voice was soft, silky, almost pleasant—and all the more dangerous because of it. In it, it conveyed the cat that had finally cornered its prey. Voldemort's smile widened and with another wave of his wand set Harry under the Cruciatus Curse again, and again the boy's screams echoed in the small space of his confinement. Everything seemed blurred—Voldemort was laughing his pleasure, Nagini's scales rasped against the stone, the Death eaters' laughter was bouncing through the air—

And Harry's mind abruptly snapped to the forefront, forced from his mental shelter, and everything came rushing back to him in a tidal wave, just like it always did. His body seized up under the terrible onslaught he was being put through and his breath hitched in his torn throat. He could feel a dark, sticky wetness running from his nose and into his mouth, and from its coppery taste he realized it was his blood. Voldemort sensed what had happened and lowered his wand so that the spell stopped.

"Back with us, young Harry?" he asked, his crimson eyes bright with excitement. "Good, boy, very good… you know how much I hate to be disappointed."

Bile rose in Harry's throat, burning it like fire. He wished it was fire, wished with every fiber of his being that Voldemort would end his life—

And something that had so far handled the strain broke inside him. Never had he consciously wished for death, never had he begged Voldemort for it, but now he did, and it shattered whatever had so far survived intact. He didn't deserve to live. He had never deserved to live—he had been the cause of so much death, o much pain and suffering.

The Dark Lord sensed his thoughts, saw them through their connection, and exulted in his victory. He came closer. "Do you want tit to end, Harry?" he asked softly, and it was laced with triumph.

Harry squeezed hi eyes shut tightly, feeling his eyes burning, and tears escaped from his hold, although he did not even realize he was crying. "P-Please," he gasped out, his voice a mockery of itself, and he didn't care anymore. Not about anything. "Please…" Everything was hazy, unreal. He thought he saw Voldemort smile, but wasn't sure. He did see the wand pointed at him, realized what was happening, and couldn't help but feel relief.

Suddenly, however, there were outcries, screams of pain, yells of rage, filthy curses spewed from unclean mouths, and Voldemort's crimson eyes disappeared in a flash of light. In the midst of the chaos, Harry felt hands turn him over, heard a sharp intake of breath, a gasp of horror. He couldn't see the face of the person above him, could only see a pair of familiar brown eyes he thought he knew.

"Harry? Oh Merlin…" The person sounded horrified enough, and Harry didn't have the strength to respond even if he'd wanted to. He felt strong arms pick him up as limp as a rag, heard that familiar voice speak again. "Hold on, Harry, hold on… we'll get you some help. You'll be okay…"

He didn't want to be okay. He wanted death, he'd begged for it. It had come so close, and when he realized it had been thwarted, he wanted to rage and weep knowing he would never get it again. Unable to believe it, he wrapped his agony around him like a cloak and lost himself in it. Let whoever it was try and find him, let them try to bring him back out.

He wouldn't let them. They'd have to let him die first.

A/N: Too dark? Hope not. This was the darkest chapter, I think, since I had to set down what had exactly happened to Harry so you can understand the rest of the story. It's not going to be this dark again. Anyway, this will be a H/Hr story eventually, but first Harry's going to have to recover, which is going to take a long time. R&R!


	2. Chapter 2

"_**Chapter 2"**_

_~I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.~_

~Ecclesiastes~ 2;10-11

Hermione Granger had never been so nervous. Waiting in Professor Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she paced restlessly, wringing her hands worriedly and trying to assure herself that the Order members who were attacking Voldemort's stronghold would be safe. They'll get out perfectly fine, she thought to herself, but that did nothing to stop the frantic fluttering in her chest and the painful knot of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach.

She had not been allowed to join in on the mission this time. She had been injured only a couple of days ago in a previous engagement with a Death Eater, and Madame Pomfrey had not allowed her to even leave the hospital wing until only a few minutes ago. She had immediately come up here, knowing from their plans that the first ones out of the battle would be leaving by Floo, to wait for them to come back, but it had already been almost three hours and Floo network had not yet flared.

She breathed out an uneasy breath, running a hand through her hair and pushing her brown curls away from her face. What was taking them so long? She looked around, but there was nothing to distract her or calm her wracked nerves. The portraits of the preceding Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts were all feigning sleep, and she knew from recent experience that they would not allow her to engage them in conversation until and unless they wanted to. Their annoying smugness and gossiping natures always made Hermione bristle, but she couldn't argue with them. They, after all, were only portraits.

She huffed to herself, still pacing. She didn't like waiting for the others. She didn't like the feeling of being left behind. She didn't want to be protected, or coddled, or taken care of. What she wanted was revenge. She wanted the Death Eaters' blood. She wanted them all to rue the very day they took Harry from his friends. He had sacrificed himself for Hermione and Ron those many weeks ago, and had been captured by the Death Eaters. There was little doubt he had been sent before Voldemort himself, facing the certainty of torture and finally death.

And for that, they all must pay.

She had vowed to herself the day Harry was taken that she would avenge him by any means necessary, and if she damned her soul along the way… well, it had been her decision. She had made up her mind. There couldn't be any going back now. Even as her thoughts strayed down the dark path of her thoughts, the fireplace erupted in green flames and a whirling figure came from the golden grate, covered in soot and ash, coughing the dust from their lungs. As Hermione rushed forward, the familiar figure of Neville Longbottom came into view, steadying himself. His hair was singed, his cheek flayed open, and he was cradling his left arm, but he was _alive_, mercifully alive!

"Neville!" she cried, gripping his right arm. "What happened? Where are the others? Are they all right?"

Neville gently took hold of her hand and held it in his own, staining her fingers red with his blood. "They're okay," he said as calmly as he could, but there was something in his face, a grave seriousness, a slow-burning fury, that caused the knot in Hermione's stomach to twist painfully. Whatever had happened was grave, perhaps deadly so. Had someone died?

But no. No, she realized that the fury that Neville was feeling was not born of pure grief—this was righteous anger from shock. "N-Neville?" She couldn't help her stammer with his name, but her heart was pounding so fiercely within her chest she thought she was going to faint. She gripped his arm again, desperate. "What happened? Tell me, Neville." Still he hesitated. "Tell me!"

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes firmly, and then let it out heavily. "We got in the stronghold easily enough. We've captured about twelve Death Eaters, killed five. A few of our Order went down, three of them injured. Hermione…" He paused again, looking uncertain, lost… devastated. "You can't go crazy about this. We found the cells, where the prisoners were being held."

Her breath hitched, and her heart felt like it might burst. Could it-? No, it was impossible, it couldn't be… "Harry?" Her voice was strangled, choked, no more than a breath of wind passed between lips stiff with shock. "Was it Harry you found?"

Neville nodded, his eyes closed. "Hospital wing," he said. "They're taking the injured to the hospital wing."

Hermione ran. She didn't think about it, she did not allow her shock to get in the way—without even waiting for Neville to finish speaking, she spun on her heel and sprinted out of the office, heading solely for the infirmary, focused on one thought, and one thought only: seeing that Harry was alive for herself. She didn't hear Neville following her, did not even recall his injuries. She reached the hospital wing in record time but did not see anyone.

"Where are they?" she cried desperately, terrified to see the large room deserted. Neville, panting slightly, stopped behind her, and jumped when suddenly she whirled and gripped the lapels of his robes, her brown eyes crazed. "Neville, tell me—was he alive? Please, tell me, I need to know!"

Neville froze, and she assumed the worst. Her knees trembled and she would have sunk to the floor in a senseless heap if the sounds of approaching footsteps had not caught her attention. She turned on the spot to a sight that caused her to stumble back a step. "Merlin," she whispered, and gripped Neville's robes in what would have been a bruising grip on his skin.

It was Dumbledore in front, leading the group of Order members, who helped their fellows who had received injuries. But it was the body in the Headmaster's arms that made her move forward with a low moan. It was Harry, alive, but dreadfully changed. He was emaciated, skeletal, with little fat or muscle left to be had on lean, brittle bones that seemed liable to break at any moment. His arms and legs dangled limply, covered in dirt and smeared with blood, and the mud caked on his person could not hide from sight the awful jutting of his ribs, of which you could count every one easily, or the awful black and purple bruises marring his torn and shredded skin. He was naked except for an Order member's cloak that was drawn across his waist, saving him the shame of other people seeing specific areas of his person.

"Poppy!" Dumbledore shouted, looking furious and horrified as he strode along the beds, and immediately the Mediwitch was there, bustling along with the usual crisp manner she always had—which abruptly vanished when seeing the boy in Dumbledore's arms.

"Good Lord!" she exclaimed in horror, paling. "Is that-?"

"Yes."

"Lay him here." Even before the Headmaster had drawn back from the bed, the nurse was there, casting spells and checking the extent of his injuries. Neville held Hermione back as the young witch struggled to rush to her friend's side. Dumbledore moved aside, sensing her thoughts, and turned to her, and the look in his eyes stopped her short. It was an agonizing thing to see Harry within her reach and yet so very far away, separated as they were by pain, torture, and the nurse, who very soon straightened with a stricken look on her face so that she seemed aged by a number of years. "How is he even still alive?" she whispered, very white in the face. The group gathered around her went very silent and still at her words.

"What do you mean, Poppy?' Dumbledore asked; fury still smoldered in his azure eyes as he looked down at Harry's motionless form. The now-liberated young wizard seemed more dead than alive, his chest so still it seemed he wasn't breathing, and the skin beneath the scum was ghostly white. Hermione bit down on the roiling, almost obsessive urge to wash the filth from him, and instead attempted to placate her emotions by thinking that surely there would be time for that later. She didn't convince herself, however, and her hands were clenched so tightly into fists that her nails were digging painfully into her palms. All that mattered now was how terrible Harry looked, how still and…

"I mean," she heard Madame Pomfrey say in a voice that trembled, "that his body should have given out by now. From what I can tell he has not been properly fed for almost two weeks, perhaps one meal every other day, and before that none at all. He has been put under more than sixty hours of the Cruciatus Curse, and also time under a dementor's influence.

Gasps of shock echoed in the room. Hermione looked behind her at Neville, who still stood holding her back. He saw the desperate question in her eyes and shook his head. "He still has soul," he said softly. "Voldemort was torturing him like he probably usually did, but we didn't see dementors anywhere."

Madame Pomfrey shook her head. "It doesn't matter if the vile creatures were there at the time or not. The dementor still harmed him. What's more, see—" And she gently picked up one slim, calloused hand from the bed and attempted to straighten out his fingers, but was not able to. She shook her head. "The nerves in his limbs have deadened and stiffened. If he manages to… to survive this—" her voice cracked slightly but then she shook herself, "it will take _months_ before he'll be able to use his hands again."

"What caused this?" Dumbledore asked, drawing a deep breath.

She shook her head helplessly. "It's barbaric, Albus," she whispered. "It's not completely clear about all that has been done to him, but I know that Potter's bones were broken numerous times, crushed, and then healed again and again. That damages nerve endings, and can even lead to paralysis." She grabbed the cloak covering him and drew it further up, hiding more of the awful thinness of his body. "He needs nourishment, but before that I will need to give him potions for a few days to clean out his sytem. I need you to send Severus here, Albus, so he can give me some potions."

"For what purpose?" Neville spoke up now.

The Mediwitch shook her head. "He is sick, Mr. Longbottom," she explained heavily. "Deadly so."

"From what?" Hermione cried, feeling her knees weaken again.

"A Muggle sickness. Dysentery."

"Dysa-what?" Neville asked blankly.

"Dysentery, Longbottom. It affects the bowels and the intestines. It comes from drinking impure, distilled water. Bacteria attacks the body's system, inflames the digestive tracks. High fever, delirium, even relieving accidents… it all comes with it."

Hermione remembered reading about World War II concentration camps and the absolute hell prisoners faced there. Numerous accounts had talked about how typhoid and dysentery had run rampant through the camps and killed millions. She could recall one such story from the Holocaust from Elie Wiesel, who wrote the book _Night_ and told about his experiences in Dachau. His father had been inadvertently killed because of dysentery, one of thousands who had lost their lives because of it. She had trouble matching the idea of the idea of that to Harry, of him having dysentery. It wasn't an illness commonly found in Europe, and never in wizards. There was no possible way Harry had it, Pomfrey must be mistaken…

"I will go speak with Severus," Dumbledore said, and he turned and left.

Pomfrey blinked twice, her eyes bright, but shook herself again. "You, Miss Granger," she said gently. "I can see you want some time with Mr. Potter. You have been helping me here sometimes during the past few months. Will you wash the filth off of him and get him cleaned up? You know what to do."

How had she known what Hermione had been dying to do? Hermione could have squealed with delight, finally getting what she wanted desperately, but decided not to waste her time doing so. Nodding her assent, she moved forward immediately as the Mediwitch went to help the other injured.

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It was hard, insanely so, washing the filth from Harry's body. It was several weeks' worth of blood and mud and dirt accumulated on his skin and his hair, which reached to about his shoulder blades. She felt almost like she couldn't handle him too hard because of how brittle he felt beneath her fingers. The dirt had to be washed away, though, so she hardened her breaking heart and scrubbed his limbs until they were at least recognizable as covered with flesh. He was utterly unresponsive as she worked, until she approached his head, and then he stirred a little. A shiver went down her spine as a quiet moan built in his throat, a moan of unspeakable agony and weakness. Of loss. He was mourning, she realized, understanding in the way only she could when it came to Harry Potter, but she didn't know what he mourning about. It broke her heart and caused her pent-back tears to fall finally. They fell on his cheeks and forehead, and he stirred more, his brows drawn down into a grimace.

Then his eyes fluttered open. She met his gaze, and immediately wished she hadn't. They were Harry's familiar emerald green eyes that looked up at her, but they were dull, lifeless, and she could see he did not recognize her. They were dead, empty windows that seemed likely to draw you down into a well of despair and depression.

"Harry," she whispered, agonized, hurting like she never had before.

He flinched at the sound of her voice and seemed to cringe away from her touch, and still he did not see her. What had Voldemort _done_ to him?

"Harry," she whispered again, her voice trembling with her aching sadness. "Harry, I'm not going to hurt you."

Again he flinched, but unable to find the strength to do anything. "Oh god," he whispered suddenly, in a voice that was not his own, "oh god… kill me."

She jerked back from him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Horror built in her chest, and she wanted to scream, knowing what he was asking. His hand twitched where it lay, as if imploring her, and his voice grew in volume as he begged her. "Please… kill me… kill me!"

"Harry—"

"Kill me!"

Unable to handle his pleas, Hermione could only do what her mind and body wanted—she turned and fled into the main part of the infirmary, where she fell limply to her knees on the floor, sobbing and half-screaming, almost hysterical. Madame Pomfrey, hearing her, rushed forward, followed by Neville, whose cheek was taped up and his left arm was up in a sling. Pomfrey seemed able to guess exactly what had happened and hurried into the small back room, while Neville, unable to bear the sight of Hermione crying, knelt and slowly drew her into a one-armed embrace. She sobbed shamelessly into his shoulder, unable to control herself, shuddering as a voice cried out, begging for death. It was a voice without any humanity in it, merely a hurt animal left to suffer, a voice they did not recognize in its agony.

Hermione hid her face and continued to weep. Had she found her best friend only to see he was no longer within her grasp?

_A/N: Yay, second chapter done! Thanks so much for the reviews—they really help with writing, knowing someone's actually reading. Sorry for the angsty chapter, but it'll pick up soon, and I'll introduce Ron into the story in the next couple chaps. R&R!_

_Were you happy to see Neville? Should he be a main character in this, do you think?_


	3. Chapter 3

"_**Chapter 3"**_

A/N: All-righty, then! Here's another chapter for all those lovely folks who are reading this story. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you all enjoy this story—I honestly wasn't sure if anyone would care to read it. But what do I know? So, oh-so-faithful readers, here's another chap for you!

P.S: Don't mind the weird line halfway through the chapter—my computer's acting weird and I don't know how to get rid of it. And also, to get the mood of this chapter, I'd listen to the Theme from Schindler's List—listening to it certainly helps set the mood for this.

Enjoy!

_~I saw the tears of the oppressed—and they have no comforter; power was on the side of their oppressors—and they have no comforter. And I declared that the dead, who had already died, are happier than the living who are still alive. But better than both is he who has not yet been born, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun.~_

~Ecclesiastes~ 4; 1-4

It was a very dark, silent night at Hogwarts that same day. Luckily, it was summer now, so students were not present at the moment. They would not have to see what had happened to Harry Potter. Hopefully, too, the media would not get hold of this latest news. Morale had been crushed when the Boy Who Lived was captured, and now it wasn't the smartest thing to announce his rescue—not while he was in his current state.

Hermione had heatedly said so, had practically begged those who had seen Harry to keep silent about him. Of course, they had needed no persuasion—they had seen and heard his creams and pleas for death, and so had agreed.

It brought her no satisfaction. All that mattered was Harry. Harry, and the awful state Voldemort had left him in. She could not face him the way he was, could not bear to be witness his shattered soul.She felt cowardly avoiding the Hospital Wing, but she couldn't help it. She continually tried to make herself get up and go—she was a Gryffindor, after all, wasn't she?—but not even that made her move.

His screams, so inhuman in their pain, haunted her.

There wouldn't be any sleep for her tonight, of that she was sure.

What could she possibly do to keep herself from falling apart again? It had only been a short time ago that she had finally calmed down, after Madame Pomfrey forced a Calming Draught down her throat. She had fallen into hysterics while in Neville's arms, something she was sure that freaked him out—it was well known Hermione Granger _never_ became hysterical she never cried, and she never allowed her emotions to get in the way of logic. Or at least that was the popular belief.

Hermione knew that logic did not always lead her actions—in fact, logic was not a big factor in her decisions. It was, instead, a simple knowledge of knowing exactly what she needed, what her morals were, and sticking to them no matter what. That wasn't logic, in her opinion, although others may say differently. It was only after Harry's capture those so many weeks ago that those morals were shaken. Needless to say, she had terrified people with her near-manic desire for revenge, not least of all—

And then it came to her of the one person she should tell—Ron. She cursed her stupidity for not thinking of him from the very beginning, and stood up on shaky legs where she sat, alone, in the Room of Requirement. She had no wish to venture from her protective sanctuary, but the need to call Ron and tell him of Harry's return was too great a need for her to simply sit and do nothing. She was just leaving the large wooden doors when Neville came around the corner, clearly looking for her. He jumped, startled by her sudden appearance, but very quickly recovered and managed a real grin.

"Blimey, Hermione! You sure do know how to scare someone, don't you?"

She shrugged, unable to summon the energy to even reply politely. "I learned from the best," she said bluntly, and turned left on the way to the Headmaster's office. Neville fell into step beside her. She looked him over. His arm was still up in a sling, and his taped up cheek was purple from bruising. She felt a small spark of self-loathing fill her—was she really so rude that she couldn't care about other people?

"So, how are you feeling, Neville?" she asked, trying for genuine concern. "Those cuts look nasty."

He shook his head. "Nah, they're just flesh wounds. It's just a sprained bone in my arm that Madame Pomfrey's actually concerned about. I'm fine. I just hope that Harry's…" But then he realized what he was saying and stopped speaking, noticing at the same time how Hermione's expression closed off. He felt guilty at the reminder of her best friend's condition, and gently grasped her elbow to stop her. "Hermione—" She looked up at him defiantly, her brown eyes dark, and he paused a moment before he continued, "don't burn yourself out with all of this. If it makes you feel any better, I was the one who found him first. He passed out right after I turned him over on his back, but right before then, I—I swear I saw a hint of recognition in his eyes."

"A _hint_?"

He nodded. "Yes. It was like he knew who I was, and couldn't recall. He knew me, but he was confused. I think Harry's in there somewhere, still—we've just got to bring him out."

Hermione's head started to spin at the possibility. Could Neville be right in thinking that Harry was still there, but hidden behind his pain? She remembered reading about the brain, about psychology, and how the mind worked. There was still so much that mankind had yet to discover about the mind. And Harry was a wizard—there was bound to be some differences in the workings of the brain, like Occlumency.

The thought of Occlumency touched off a whole other realm of possibilities to think about… and for the first time Hermione felt the smallest spark of hope return to her. She managed a smile for Neville, one of real gratitude, and suddenly felt better. Her dreadful, obsessive fear had lifted somewhat. "Thanks, Neville."

And clearly he realized his words had done some good, because he relaxed a bit as well. "No problem." They resumed their walking in silence for a moment, then: "So, what are you doing now?"

She sighed. "Heading up to Professor Dumbledore's office—I need to Floo Ron and tell him about Harry."

Neville's face saddened at the mention of the youngest Weasley son. "Right. Do you want some company?"

She gave him a look. "Well, you were clearly looking for me earlier, so I guess you're planning on going with me no matter where I choose to go, so…" Leaving her sentence hanging, she walked on.

They approached the stone gargoyle that led up to the Headmaster's office and spoke the password. Letting themselves into the office, they found Dumbledore seated at the desk, his head in his hands. Neville looked distinctly embarrassed that he had walked in on the Headmaster in such a vulnerable position, but Hermione barely hesitated in her walking. Hearing the door, Dumbledore looked up, looking older than either of the young teens had ever seen him. "Yes, Miss Granger? Mr. Longbottom? What do you need?"

Hermione stopped in front of his desk. "I need to firecall the Weasleys. They'll need to know about Harry."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. I was waiting until you came up here to give you permission. You may go ahead—I need to go to the dungeons to retrieve some potion from Professor Snape." Standing, he came around the desk, preparing to leave, but then stopped in front of Hermione. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Harry is not yet lost to us, Miss Granger. Remember that. It will be love that beings him back." And without giving her the chance of a reply, which didn't matter since she didn't have one, he swept out of the room, leaving Hermione and Neville to look confusedly at each other.

0000000000

"Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione called through the Floo. She saw the living room of the Burrow, but none of the red-haired family that she had become so close to. Concerned, confused, worried, Hermione stepped fully into the flames and instantly found herself on the edge of the grate of the Burrow. Brushing the soot from her clothing, feeling dizzy from her travel, Hermione looked around, calling Mrs. Weasley's name again. Still there was no answer, and so she ventured further out into the house, and was inexplicably soothed by the familiar scent of it. These were rooms she spent summers at, the house where she did so much growing.

It was also the place where she finally realized that she and Ron would never work.

The sound of footsteps outside drew her attention, and out of pure habit she gripped her wand without drawing it. She needn't have worried, however—the door slammed shut and Molly Weasley came into view. Where the older woman was once plump and undeniably happy, now she was thinner and haggard. Her once-vivid red hair was limp and starting to grey, her eyes were rimmed in red and dark shadows showing the long sleepless nights she undoubtedly faced, and she rarely smiled anymore. Carrying in a load of dried wash, the basket fell to the floor with a loud crash from startled hands, and she shrieked seeing her guest.

"Oh! Hermione, dear! Oh… I- I must say it's… it's quite remarkable having you here—"

"I know." Hermione didn't waste time. "Mrs. Weasley, I came here to tell you something important. Is- is anyone else here?"

Molly seemed to sense that Hermione was asking where Ron was, because her expression softened. "Outside, dear," she replied, and her voice shook a little as she said it. "He'll need to head to work soon, Hermione dear, just so you know."

"Actually, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione replied tentatively, "if Ron wants to, I'll be taking him back to Hogwarts with me. The Ministry won't mind if he takes a sick day?"

Molly frowned. "I don't think so. What's happened? Is something wrong?"

Hermione was not expecting the question, and to her horror she felt herself freeze, her eyes stinging as tears welled up again. Molly immediately regretted asking such a question, feeling, at the same moment, curious as to why the young woman standing before her looked so _shattered_. "Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry—that must have been a thoughtless question on my part—" Of course it was. The poor girl had not been the same since Harry was taken. Molly could not blame Hermione for what had happened after, nor for her peculiar behavior, since she was feeling much of the same thing.

But Hermione waved a hand, blinking the shameful tears away. "It's okay, Mrs. Weasley. I'm- I'm okay. I just really need to speak with Ron. It concerns Harry." Her voice wavered again on his name, but she forced herself to remain firm.

Molly's reaction was rather comical. Her eyes flew wide, and she dropped the basket again as she picked it up. She had to sink into the nearest chair, her hands coming up to clutch her apron. "What- what about Harry, Hermione?"

"The Order found him."

00000000

Hermione found Ron where she thought he would be—the Weasley family cemetery. He was kneeling in front of the newest tombstone, one made from plain, yet beautifully etched, stone, his head bowed as if in prayer. His hand was clutching the top of the marker with white knuckles, and she thought she could see tears running down his face. She felt it would unforgivable to interrupt such an intimate moment, so she stood back at a respectful distance, feeling the familiar sadness welling in her chest when she saw the name on the tombstone.

When finally he finished, Ron stood and turned. His expression was still vulnerable, and nothing like the fun-loving, yet immature boy she could recall in bittersweet memories of their school days. He looked older now, harder, wearier of the world. He had seen too much death, and it had changed him. It was yet another thing that Hermione had come to resent about this whole war.

In some ways she couldn't explain, however, Hermione envied the dead. Once gone from the world, they were unable to be touched, unable to be hurt by the physical world. They were beyond their oppressors, leaving behind loved ones and friends who were left at the mercy of the enemy. They were safe, and even though their bodies could be desecrated, what did the dead care about that? They had no need for a mortal body that would only drag them down in the Afterlife.

Ron cleared his throat, looking faintly surprised to see her standing there. "Hermione."

She nodded. "Ron."

The silence was awkward between them, until finally unable to bear it, Hermione asked, "How are you holding up?"

He shook his head helplessly. "As good as I can be, I guess," he answered softly. "Mum's doing better—she finally managed to start sleeping again, and we managed to give some of his old clothes to St. Mungo's for patients who needed them. It's just… difficult… knowing he isn't here anymore. Who's going to take our side when Mum yells at us, who's going to calm her down when she starts yelling?" He shook his head again, as if answering his own question. Hermione followed his gaze to the name on the tombstone: _Arthur Weasley_.

"So…" Ron said uncomfortably, leaving the cemetery's lines, "uh, what- what brings you here, Hermione?"

She shook herself, looked up from the name, and met his gaze. "Ron, I know it's… difficult to see me here, but I- I needed to come here and tell you…"

He frowned. "Tell me what?"

She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, took a deep breath, tried to speak, and suddenly started to laugh nervously, running her fingers through her hair. "Oh Merlin, I didn't expect it to be this hard… Ron… oh this is bloody ridiculous… Ron, the Order found Harry."

She hadn't meant to say it so bluntly, but she couldn't find an easier way to say it, and besides, it would make it easier in the long run.

Ron's mouth fell open. "Are… are you serious, 'Mione? Truly?" He sounded completely thrown, but hopeful.

She nodded. "I saw him myself. They brought him in only a few hours ago… he's in bad shape, but I needed to tell you."

He had caught her words. "How bad?" he whispered, white.

She swallowed. "Madame Pomfrey isn't sure if he'll make it. He's so thin, he hasn't been fed in weeks, and he was tortured badly. He was unconscious when they brought him in, but while I was cleaning him up he woke up and he- he didn't recognize me." Her voice fell to a whisper at the memory. "Neville doesn't think it's madness, though, he says that Harry almost recognized him when they found him in Voldemort's stronghold."

"And you came to see if I wanted to come see him?" Ron asked, and to her despair she heard a note of disbelief in his tone. His eyes looked wounded in the darkening light, and he ran a hand shakily through his hair. "I… Bloody hell, Hermione, you think I'll want to go see my best mate like that? You think I want to go to Hogwarts at all?"

She shook her head. "No, I know you don't, I know what happened there, I know that was where…" _Where your dad died_. "But I needed to ask. I don't know what to do, I can't face him like that. He just lies there staring at nothing, and if you talk to him he flinches like a whipped dog and begs you to kill him! I don't know what to do, I- I know I'm cowardly, but I can't bear looking at him—" Her voice was strangled, rising in volume, and she felt tears stinging her eyes again as she talked. She felt like she shouldn't have come, she should have known that she wasn't ready for this—not with Ron, not here where their relationship fell apart—

But then he showed his terrible-earned maturity, and stepped forward, looking troubled. "Hermione," he began in a low voice, "please, don't think I'm taking this out on you or Harry, I swear I'm not. It's just… I'm not ready to see him. Not yet. Give me a couple of days. I promise on Dad's grave that I'll come. Just… not yet. I can understand how hard it must be for you—go talk to Madame Pomfrey and see what she thinks. If Neville doesn't think this is permanent, I wouldn't think it is. Go talk. Find out what you can do." His hand came up to brush her cheek in a long-forgotten gesture that somehow calmed her tears. "It'll be okay. When has Harry ever let us down before?"

She shook her head. "Never."

0000000000

Hermione took her leave of Molly and the Burrow and Flooed back to Hogwarts, where Neville helped her out if the fireplace, looking worried.

"Were they not there?"

She shook her head. "They were there. They just… couldn't come." She decided to keep it at that, unable to speak about the personal conversation that had been held between her and Ron. She doubted she'd ever be able to speak of it. Clearly her voice and face said so, because Neville did not press; instead he stepped back, giving her space to gather herself. When she had done that, she took a deep breath. "Will you go with me to the hospital wing, Neville? I need to see Harry's condition for myself."

He nodded, and she steeled herself to do what would be perhaps the hardest thing she'd ever done.

A/N: Sorry, cliffhanger! I can't type anymore, my hands are really sore. Fourth chapter will finally unravel some mysteries for you, and we'll see if Harry will actually be okay. And no this will not be a Ron-bashing story, either! His reasons for refusing to go with Hermione will be explained soon—you haven't seen the last of him! R&R! Next chap should be up within a week.


	4. Chapter 4

"_**Chapter 4"**_

A/N: I'm SO sorry for the long delay with this chapter, but I wasn't feeling it for two days and then a giant, severe thunderstorm blew through the county and knocked out everyone's—and I mean _everyone's—_power. Internet was down all this time, so I couldn't do anything about it. Updates will be erratic, until I can find my groove again.

_All this time I can make it right  
With one more try, can we start again?  
In my eyes you can see it now  
Can we start again? Can we start again?_

_~Start Again~ Red_

The trip to the infirmary seemed to take forever. Hermione was very glad for Neville's presence—she didn't think she would have been able to walk forward if he hadn't been there. But he simply stood beside her, ready to give her support, and Hermione loved him for that. Following Harry's capture and Mr. Weasley's death, which left Ron devastated, she had had no one to turn to, nowhere to run. Neville had stepped up and been her support—never romantically, but certainly as a friend. Hermione would always be grateful to him for that.

Neville seemed to know her fear, and gripped her forearm gently. "It'll be okay, Hermione," he said softly. "It'll be fine. You know Harry's always defied the odds before."

His words echoed Ron's, and she nodded. She knew it—Harry had always managed to defy the impossible. If anyone could recover from the state he was in, it was Harry himself.

The infirmary was quiet, perhaps a little too much. There was something subdued in the air, as if there was a gathering around the bed of a dying person. Everything seemed tense, waiting, as if waiting for the explosion in the storm when matters went to Hell and back. Hermione tried to shake herself of these morbid thoughts, but wasn't quite able to—too much had happened, and would continue to happen. She needed the strength to face that which was going to pass, with or without support. She needed to be stoic, above another hysterical outburst of tears.

She needed to be like Harry, brave in the most terrible of conditions. Strong. Supportive.

Even if said young wizard failed to recognize her.

She walked down the rows of beds to where Madame Pomfrey stood beside Harry's prone form, waving her wand in complicated diagnostic spells as she finished with her last check-up. He looked just as terrible, just as thin and fragile, as he had before, and she wanted to scream at him.

_Get up! Get up, and smile at us! Tell us you're okay, that Voldemort didn't-_

But she couldn't. She couldn't, because he was unconscious, and he wouldn't understand.

"How is he, Madame Pomfrey?" Neville asked softly, when seeing Hermione was lost in thought.

The aged nurse turned to them, her face weary. "Bad," she replied softly. "Very bad indeed." Hermione stiffened, thrust back into reality, and her face clearly told the Mediwitch to explain. "Mr. Potter has had almost all of the bones in his body broken, reset, and then broken again, over and over again, in a cycle. He is severely dehydrated, both from no water for almost three days and from the dysentery ravaging his system. He's malnourished, starved, and he was beaten on several occasions. How his heart hasn't given out yet is a mystery to me…"

"And his mind?" Hermione inquired, her gaze fierce. "What of that, Madame Pomfrey?"

The nurse shook her head. "I've been trying to discern that. I can say that with time his mind will recover, but as right now… Mr. Potter is no more than acting on instinct and fear. It's something that occurs entirely in the brain—perhaps a chemical imbalance, or simply terror. I have seen and heard of cases similar to what happened to Mr. Potter—of people, Muggles and wizards alike, who were tortured and hurt."

"But what does that have to do with anything?" Neville asked, baffled.

"It has everything to do with it, Mr. Longbottom. In his mind, Potter is hiding behind his pain and fear, almost… protecting himself against harm. Legilimency will not do any good, as the shields that have been erected around Potter's mind are based on a primitive level, not a logical or conscious one. This is his way of protecting himself. We have to be patient with him. Time is essential with a case like this. If we rush or try to break down his shields, we very well could damage his mind permanently." She shook her head. "Now, I must go speak with Albus about the potions needed for Potter's recovery." And she bustled away, leaving Hermione and Neville to process the news she had given them.

"Neville," Hermione whispered between stiff lips, "please leave for a few minutes. I need some time alone." Her mind was frozen, numb, unable to recall anything besides the words she had just heard. She barely heard Neville's startled "A-All right" and his footsteps as he did as asked and left the hospital wing.

She stood absolutely still or a long minute after the doors shut behind him, simply staring down at Harry's still body. Her heart was thumping in her throat, blood pounding through her head, and her fists clenched and unclenched. Abruptly she felt her horror and sadness snap, snap into awful fury, even hatred—

And it was directed at Harry.

"What gave you the right?" she hissed suddenly, and her voice sounded different, twisted and thick and cruel, laced with ugly darkness. "What gave the _RIGHT_?" she screamed. "What made you think you could sacrifice yourself for _US_, Harry? Why are Ron and I good enough to risk your life? Why did you give yourself up for us!" She whirled on her heel and started to pace, her face twisted with fury. She turned back to him, her body shaking. "You stupid, selfless, idiotic son of a BITCH! _YOU BASTARD!_ WHY?"

She was surprised how good it felt to scream her anger and frustration, felt good to voice her thoughts after so long of keeping them silent and locked away. They had forced a rift between her and Ron, destroyed her life in every way, and devastated her heart like nothing ever had. She was shaking with tears of rage, while they streamed down her face. She felt so helpless standing there, and she hated it, because Hermione Granger was never helpless.

She had felt helpless ever since that terrible day of the battle at Hogwarts, when she and Ron, fighting in the courtyard, were almost captured by Voldemort himself, until suddenly Harry was there. He had shoved them away, placing himself in Voldemort's path, and gotten himself captured because of that. There had been nothing but determination and anger in his face as he was, however, as he had looked back at Ron and Hermione. He was giving himself up for them so they had a chance, and he was not going to be challenged on that at all, and there had been triumph in his eyes as he was apparated away by the Death Eaters.

Hermione would never forgive him for that, would never forgive his stupid self-sacrificing nature. She would gladly have given up her life for either him or Ron. Hadn't he _known_ that? Hadn't he known she _loved_ him?

She wasn't going to let Voldemort win. She wasn't going to lose her best friend to some stupid mental problem, if she did she deserved to be lynched.

Damn it, she was going to_ make_ Harry recover.


	5. Chapter 5

"_**Chapter 5"**_

A/N: Well, here's the next chapter—it took shorter to write than I originally thought, but oh well, nobody's complaining, right? Enjoy—we'll finally get moving into Harry's recovery, which like I said before will take a while.

_Listening to- What You Make of Me by Holding Onto Hope_

_Maybe there's a God above  
But all I've ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you  
And it's not a cry that you hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

True to her word, Hermione stiffened the upper lip, however much it hurt to do so, and stuck to the hospital wing for a whole week. It was the longest amount of time she had ever had the displeasure of going through, even more so than even in fourth year, watching the Tasks Harry had been forced to compete in. Worse than the weeks after Harry's capture. Worse than Arthur Weasley's funeral and its aftermath.

Worse, because Harry was right there, and still so far away. Still lost. Still hurting. Still broken. He had woken up two days after his rescue, finally announced stable in his condition, although he still bore horrible reminders of his imprisonment. His frame was still skeletal and weak, and his skin, especially on his hands, had been shredded and torn, rubbed raw by stone. When finally regaining consciousness, however, Harry was no more there than a lifeless object. A puppet, staring blankly at nothing. However much that Hermione reminded herself of Madame Pomfrey's words, that Harry was still there, just hidden, however, she couldn't help but feel the agony rip through her again as she locked gazes with her friend and saw no recognition.

She didn't allow herself to freeze up whenever she felt that way, however; she still burned with anger and determination. She was going to make Harry recover, she was going to see him open his emerald eyes one day and see him looking at her, knowing who she was, even if it was only for her to berate him for his selflessness. She wouldn't let Voldemort win. Never. So she did all that Madame Pomfrey wanted, whether it was giving Harry potions or broth to eat or simply sitting watching him at night. Even lost as he was, he still tossed and turned, moaning in his sleep, and sometimes he had a nightmare so bad that she heard him calling for mercy, for someone to kill him. In the surrounding darkness, his cries were pitiful, almost frightening, and became so terrible in their pain that Hermione finally went against better judgment and cuddled with him, his head in her lap, her hands softly stroking his hair. The first time she did that he completely freaked, clearly unused to gentle touch. The more often she did that, however, whenever his broken whimpers would start to resound in the hospital wing, he slowly began to calm and responded to her touch like a feral cat being touched for the first time. It was not much, but it was enough.

Another week went by. By this time many of Harry's friends had stopped in to see him, as well as the Hogwarts professors who had heard of his rescue. Minerva McGonagall had been reduced to tears at the sight of her former student, for she had come at a time when he was having a nightmare, and she had heard his outcries. Rubeus Hagrid visited every day to see how he was doing, as did Neville, who usually sat with Hermione and simply lent her support. Molly Weasley had come in within the first week, with the twins Fred and George, who had brought along a toilet seat as a gift. Even Severus Snape, the potions master and spy for the Order, had come in.

"_Still here, Granger?" he sneered in his usual tone, walking along the rows of beds to where she sat holding Harry close in her lap, calming him after fear became too much. Snape's face twitched with what could have been surprise or disgust, but then it was smoothed away. She looked back up at him, too weary to snap._

"_I'll be here as long as it takes, Professor," she said simply, bluntly, and went back to stroking Harry's hair, which had finally been thoroughly washed and cut to a manageable length. Snape's face twitched again, this time with something akin to wistfulness, before it was shoved aside. Struggling to keep images of Lily Evans at bay, and of the friendship they'd had, he set the bottles of potions he'd brought and set them down on the small table beside her._

But she had absolutely dreaded Ron's visit, who came with Ginny within the start of the second week. Ginny had paled and sat down before her knees gave way. She hadn't been able to stay long, which was just as well as Hermione almost couldn't stand to look at her very long she was so angry.

_You don't deserve to be here, you little whore,_ she thought. _How dare you come here now, after walking out on Harry and cheating on him?_ She didn't care if Ginny Weasley was contrite at the moment, the point still stood that she had shagged numerous men during her relationship with Harry, all because Harry wouldn't go that far.

Ron, however, while awkward standing there, simply swallowed hard. "Merlin," he whispered in a choked voice. "This is what we would have faced…"

Hermione flinched, having realized the same thing days before. "He really does love us, Ron," she replied softly, looking down at Harry where he lay sleeping.

"Like you love him," Ron said, but there was no bitterness in his voice like there had been before.

It was because of Hermione's love for Harry and Ron's jealousy that had caused their love relationship to fall apart. Hermione had tried to forget her years-long love for Harry, a love that had started when a black-haired boy came rushing in to save a bushy-haired girl from a mountain troll, and been successful for a time—until Harry was captured, that is, and then it had come to light. Ron, jealous of her love for his best friend, had responded in the immature fashion he was famous for and had started a fight that had, at the end, left him Hexed senseless and Hermione in tears. Then Mr. Weasley's death had happened, and that had cooled the awful feelings between the two. They had been able to have a talk in the Burrow, without shouting, without accusations, and had explained their relationship with each other until finally they had come to the conclusion that while they could still be friends, given time, they could never be lovers. Since then, they had had very little contact, but it seemed that Harry was going to pull them back together, because it still stood that Ron was not going to abandon his friends—not after learning what a mistake that was during their fourth year. Death had made mature even more, such as its cost was.

She couldn't deny his words, so she simply nodded.

"We're going to make him better, Ron," she said, and a bit of her fierceness shown through her exhaustion as she said it. "He's going to wake up, and he's going to recognize us. All of us."

"But what about all the stuff that's happened while he was… gone?" Ron asked. "How will we explain to him about the battles that have been fought, or the- the deaths? Bloody hell, we're going to have to tell him about Dad—" his voice cracked a bit on the last word, "sometime, and what if that sends him back down to wherever he is now?"

"It won't," she said, her eyes glowering at the very thought.

He hung his head and ran his hands through his hair. "I guess," he sighed tiredly. "You always had a knack for being right. Please don't jinx yourself on this one."

She bit back a harsh retort, knowing how difficult this was for him, and shook her head. "I won't."

But that night, in the dark and hearing Harry cry out in his sleep, she began to doubt. Crawling into the bed, wrapping around him comfortably, her heart tore again at the despair and broken helplessness in his voice, even she began to calm him. He seemed no closer to recovery than he had been before. What would she do if he never did? Would she be able to keep him like this, a mindless animal incapable of caring for himself? Or would she have the strength to let him go?

Fright crashed down on her seated there in the dark of the hospital wing, thinking such thoughts. All that night, even after Harry drifted off to sleep again, she sat and shivered in her sheets, imagining childhood fears and her terror now, and she thought she could hear phantom cries of pain drifting along the air, as if all the forgotten phantoms of days past were congregating to remind her of the futility of trying to change Fate.

_A/N: Angry with the ending? Sorry. This chap was kind of down, sorry about that as well, but there's gotta be a down before it gets better, right? Next chapter we'll finally see a breakthrough in Harry's recovery, and the story will progress from there! _


	6. Chapter 6

"_**Chapter 6"**_

And in despair I bowed my head:  
"There is no peace on earth," I said,  
"For hate is strong and mocks the song  
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:  
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;  
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,  
With peace on earth, good will to men."

The long, monotonous attempts to bring harry back to himself continued, into a month, then into a month and a half. He remained just as unresponsive and utterly the same as he always did. Even Madame Pomfrey was starting to think that perhaps she had been wrong in her original assumptions when he simply lay staring blankly at the wall. He had not spoken for days, had barely moved, and did not willingly eat—although, at least, he no longer flinched and shied away from hands thought to be unfriendly. But that brought no satisfaction—rather, it made it all the more seem like he was a dog trained to fear a master's stern hand than a human mind beginning to recover. His magic had not begun to build itself up yet, either, though his body had finally begun to fill out a little so that he didn't look quite so brittle.

Hermione, as was the usual these past few weeks, had refused to leave his side for anything, and she had begun to suffer from her decision. She had begun to lose weight herself from worry and stress, her eyes were lined in dark shadows of exhaustion, and her movements seemed slow, sluggish, almost as she was trying to figure out whether she should continue on.

She had begun to despair. Deep down, where nobody else could even begin to look, she had begun to realize that Harry might never recover from this, that he may remain in the same mental state that he was in forever. And it terrified her. She didn't want to give up hope, did not want to fail Harry where she just had to succeed, but after almost two months of witnessing no change, of going most nights calming his fears and cries and forgoing any sleep herself, stress and depression was starting to grip her. Tearing down her strength, weakening her convictions.

Even Albus was doubting.

"_Is there nothing we can do to help him?" she had overheard him ask Madame Pomfrey. She burrowed deeper into her book as she sat beside Harry's bedside, unnoticed by either the Headmaster or the Mediwitch. "Nothing at all?"_

_She heard a sigh, a quiet sound mixed with despair. "Nothing, Albus. I've checked his mental barriers again, and there has been no change. And no, we will not try Occlumency on the boy—anything along the lines of a mental intrusion could lead to lasting damage to his psyche."_

_There was a long, terrible silence in which Hermione thought she felt the air itself turn solid, pressing down upon them while it waited for the inevitable. Her hands trembled as they clutched her book, her attention shattered from its words, riveted instead on the Headmaster._

"_So we must begin to prepare for the likelihood that he will not recover," he finally murmured quietly, wearily, and Hermione almost screamed then, almost screamed her fury at the words. Hadn't she promised to make Harry better? Hadn't she vowed to help him find himself again? How could this old man, this manipulative codger decide what was right for others?_

What gave him the right to play God?

She was alone in the wing at the moment—Pomfrey had gone to see Snape about something, and the rest of her friends and the Order were out doing other things. Hermione hadn't moved from the hospital wing all this time, refusing to leave Harry's bedside for anything, no matter how much the others pleaded with her to get out and calm down. She was doing nothing good for herself, they said, sitting there doing nothing. She replied it was good for Harry and then told them in no uncertain terms to leave her alone.

But now, almost two months later, she was weakening.

No, wasn't weakening. She was shattered, unable to handle this anymore.

Standing up from where she sat in the stifling silence of the hospital wing, Hermione slowly walked over to Harry's bed, haltingly making her way over on unsteady feet. She tried to swallow down the awful tightness in her throat as she looked down at Harry, who stared vacantly at the other wall. She couldn't stand to look anymore at her best friend's broken spirit, could not help but feel horror at the sight of his loss, and abruptly she felt hatred rise up in her, searing her throat and leaving her light-headed with its strength. She felt for the first time in a long time the want, the urge, to hunt down the Death Eaters who had done this to Harry, she wanted to kill Voldemort himself for the life he had so utterly destroyed. This hurt, seeing Harry like this.

It hurt like hell, and she couldn't handle it anymore.

Maybe that was why Dumbledore was the way he was, always taking charge—because there _wasn't_ a God, and it was the only way he knew how to fight the Darkness. How could you fight against such deep, prejudiced Hatred. What God allowed such evil into the world?

She gripped Harry's hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and she turned on her heel to leave—

"Don't go."

The small, utterly broken voice stopped her completely; it was impossible, she hadn't heard him for days, not since his last nightmare and he'd begged her to kill him again. She turned, almost in a daze, and she looked down at him where he still lay. It seemed like he had never spoken at all.

But his eyes were suddenly more focused than before; still lost, but more aware. His hand, the one she had squeezed, was trembling, and his breathing had quickened. He looked more alive than he had since his rescue, and Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. She tentatively stepped closer.

"Harry?"

Her voice made him flinch, as much as his tattered body would allow, and the muscles in his arms and legs were taut, quivering, his mind clearly in the 'fight or flight' mode. But still he fought past the obvious dread and again his mouth moved, until she heard him repeating, over and over again, in that same small voice, "Please, don't go…"

She had to fight to keep from bursting into tears and throwing her arms around him. Instead, she lowered herself gently on the edge of the bed and grasped his hand in hers. She heard him inhale sharply, a shudder passing through his limbs, and his thin, ragged-skinned fingers convulsively curled around hers in a surprisingly strong grip.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered.

He moved then, every muscle still taut as if expecting a blow, and for the first time he seemed to focus on her. "'Mione?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes," she breathed, "yes, it's me." He was able to recognize her, after all this time! Was he finally beginning to recover?

His trembling increased, his fingers jerking even as they clutched at her own. His mouth opened and then closed again. This simple little action was repeated as his gaze seemed to sharpen even more, and then finally he inhaled sharply and blinked—

And his brilliant emerald eyes met her brown ones. The awful pain and awareness shining in their depths took her breath away, but he was actually awake! "Hermione," he croaked, his voice breaking, and that soft utterance of her name caused an invisible barrier to break. With a strangled sob of relief, she completely forgot herself and threw her arms around him, lying almost on top of him as she drew him close.

"Harry!" She couldn't stop the sobs from coming, and she couldn't bear to let him go. Her arms circled obsessively around him, stoking and petting his unkempt hair, and she could feel him trembling beneath her, but she felt his own arms curl around her in a death-grip. A laugh born of sheer relief and happiness bubbled in her stomach and burst shakily from her mouth as she finally drew back a little to look him in the eye. "Merlin, Harry, I- I can't believe it! We were afraid you'd never come back to us!" She wiped furiously at her eyes, brushing away tears.

And Harry, God bless him, having just woken up from the effects of torture, abuse, and starvation, looked frankly uncomfortable for a girl to be crying on his chest.

_A/N: Ooo, semi-cliffhanger! Do you hate me? Sorry, but at least you see Harry's woken up! Next chap will be up whenever, so just keep a look-out! Thank you all for your reviews—they really help with writing, you know? I cannot begin to thank you all enough! You guys rock!_


	7. Chapter 6 Part 2

"_**Chapter 6- Part II"**_

_A/N: You know, reviewers are the magic on this site! Writers like myself can post as many stories as we want here, but it's really the readers who decide whether it's really good or not! Thank you so much, guys, for all the reviews—they really mean a lot. And since you responded so well to chapter six- are we really on chapter seven already?- here it is, the next chap for all of you. Enjoy!_

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~I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the LORD, do all these things.~

Isaiah 45;7

"Madame Pomfrey!" Hermione cried, rushing up to the nurse's side as the old Mediwitch entered the hospital wing. "Madame Pomfrey, come quickly!"

"Goodness, child!" Poppy said, surprised by the girl's intensity. She had not seen Hermione this animated in weeks, nor this excited and happy—and now she was fairly overflowing with happiness, borderline giddiness. Whatever her news was, Poppy could see that it was good—And that could only mean one thing. "Is it-?"

"Harry!" Hermione said, pulling the nurse along as they walked. "Harry woke up!"

The urgency in her voice, the elation, shocked the nurse, but without hesitation Poppy gathered her senses from the shock induced by this rather startling revelation. After all, a patient needed her, and she would not simply ignore them. So she opened the hospital wing doors without pause and strode hurriedly along the beds, Hermione racing ahead of her. Reaching the side of the bed, Poppy saw, sure enough, Harry lying awake in the bed, while Hermione smiled excitedly down at him.

"Potter, you seem to make it your personal goal to scare everyone out of their wits year after year!" she exclaimed, bustling over while drawing her wand to perform the customary spells—

And Harry stiffened on the bed, his eyes widening as his sight fell upon it. Panic flared in his face, but he was still too weak to do anything but try to shift frantically to the other side of the bed, where Hermione, surprised, prevented him from falling off the side of the mattress.

"Harry!"

"No!" he gasped out, still fighting to get away. "No, please, don't— Don't use that right now."

The nurse realized that he was talking about her wand, and immediately slid it back where it was. She berated herself—so thoughtless! Of course Harry wouldn't stand the sight of any wand pointed at him, not after all that had happened to him.

Hermione, watching, felt her heart drop a little seeing him react in such a way—but what else could she have expected? He had only just woken up, and he was probably disoriented. Still frightened. "Harry," she whispered, helping him back up on the mattress, and felt him trembling beneath her grip. "Harry, it's okay. You're safe. You're home."

He looked up at her, and the panic in his expression lessened a little, but it was overcome with guilt. "I let him break me," he whispered back. His voice, she noticed, was raspy, dry, like an old man's. "He told me you all abandoned me, and I believed him." He flinched again as Madame Pomfrey came closer, but luckily he did not react in the way he had. He shrank back into Hermione's touch a little as Pomfrey reached to touch his forehead, but stayed still enough.

"You're a very lucky young man, Mr. Potter," she said in her usual brisk way, but she was smiling, and she could not hide her relief. "Finding you, we weren't sure what would happen. And Miss Granger has been here every day and night." Her hand shifted from his forehead to his neck, feeling for swelling or unnatural heat.

"How- how long have I been here?" he asked hoarsely, still ramrod stiff beneath her fingers.

"Almost two months," Hermione answered softly. She tapped her finger against his hand, attempting to distract him from Pomfrey's inspection. "The Order found you and brought you here. You've been recovering since then, but…"

"But?" His voice was small.

She shook her head. "I told you before—we were afraid it was too late. We thought Voldemort had broken you completely. You- you're going to have a long recovery."

"I would say so," Madame Pomfrey said, drawing back. "Neither the body nor the mind can be fixed overnight. Well, Mr. Potter, you do not seem ill. There's no fever, no chills, no swelling anywhere. How do you feel physically?"

He shifted again. "Stiff," he said finally. "And I can't feel my fingers. What- what's wrong with my hands?"

"Damaged neurons," Hermione answered. "They'll get better."

She left the hospital wing soon after to call everyone there. First she ran into Neville, who reacted in a most un-Neville like manner and whooped and spun her around in his arms hearing of Harry's waking up. Then they rushed to Dumbledore's office to inform the Headmaster.

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"Neville!" Harry exclaimed in surprise as they entered the hospital wing again. He was sitting up against numerous pillows while Madame Pomfrey watched him critically, but he seemed fine enough. He was visibly shocked to find that the shy boy he had known was gone and in his place a powerful man had taken his place.

Neville and Hermione rushed in, Neville bursting with excitement. "Harry! Mate, you gave us a panic attack! Jeez, are you going to up the dangerous stunts every year?"

This brought a tentative smile to Harry's face, but he did not answer. Instead, his eyes searched Neville's face, frowning slightly, as if trying to recall something. And then his face cleared and realization dawned. "You were the one who found me!" he said. "That day, you were the one!"

Neville grinned. "I thought you realized who I was," he replied, but could not hide his relief. "You knew."

Harry shook his head, though. "Not until now," he corrected him softly. He looked between them. "What happened? I mean, while I was… gone?"

That wiped the smiles off their faces quickly.

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They told him what they could, although they left a lot out. They skittered over the weeks of fear and anger, merely saying that they had been difficult. There was no mention of Mr. Weasley's death, and Hermione did not say anything about the strife that had risen between Ron and her. They talked about the condition Harry had been found in, and about the weeks following that, but again they left out the behavior he had gone through while in his mental exile. Hermione made no mention of the nights of nightmares and tears and pleas for death, knowing that would upset him too much, and it would embarrass her too much. Harry sensed they weren't telling him everything, but chose not to press. He had gone very white with their explanations, and he was silent throughout it all, and made no move to speak even after they were done with their explanations.

His silence unnerved Hermione, until finally, she pleaded, "Please, Harry, say something. Anything. You can blame us if you want, just… please speak to us."

He bit his lip, looking slightly dazed. "What is there to say?" he countered. "I'd rather forget it all."

She flinched. It sounded like he was blaming them. "You shouldn't have given yourself up, that day. You shouldn't have—"

"It had been my choice," he interrupted, and she was relieved to see that at least now he was responding. He was also clearly shocked at her words, even a little angry. "Don't you dare tell me that I shouldn't have done what I did! It had been my choice. I would do it all over again if it meant saving you and Ron."

"It won't happen again," she said fiercely. "We won't let it happen." She tried to hide her sudden upwelling of fear at the thought of Harry being captured again. If Voldemort had Harry within his grasp like he had, if Harry wasn't outright killed it was likely that he wouldn't survive another torture session mentally.

But he simply smiled sadly, and they realized he had changed in ways they did not yet realize. It was a smile that only hard-bitten veterans wore, one that held all of their life's tragedy in it. It shouldn't have fit on such a young face, but looking at Harry now he looked more like a man than the eighteen year old he really was. A worn, tired man, but a man all the same.

"Sometimes, Hermione," he said softly, "You just don't get a choice."


	8. Chapter 8

"_**Chapter 7"**_

A/N: It's been a very long time, I know. I'm sorry! I hope you enjoy, though.

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"Good, Potter. Now steady yourself before you take another step."

Hermione watched with heightening elation as Harry slowly, carefully, placed a hand on the wall and tentatively took a step forward, his limbs trembling slightly with the effort to remain upright. He allowed himself a moment to simply breath before he attempted another step, and his gaze swept over to Hermione for a split moment before his attention was back to what he was doing—but even that one look made her stomach leap.

Progress in Harry's recovery had slowly picked up—at least in the physical sense. The potions Madame Pomfrey gave him having cleared his body of the dysentery's toxins, he was then able to eat and drink, and finally began to gain some weight back. Hermione almost couldn't believe that Harry had pulled through, and simply took delight in the fact that as the days and weeks went on she saw his brittle frame start to fill out from the food and nutritional potions he managed to get down. With his recovery he gained some strength back, and soon he was able to pull himself into a sitting position without help.

Now the next step was walking, which was what he was currently attempting to do.

He was still painfully slow, and it was clear he was also still rather weak, but with a familiar tenacious stubbornness he refused to let that stop him, and he took another tentative step.

His fingers trembled against the wall, healing nerves twitching and making his hands curl, beating out a soft, irregular beat against the wall as he continued on his way. Hermione was tempted to help him, to hold onto those slim fingers and straighten them out, but knew that he would not appreciate that, and so she simply sat and waited. Seated beside her on the bed, Neville grinned and looked over at her, guessing all-too-knowingly her thoughts. She blushed.

"He'll be okay, now, Hermione," he said softly, and for a moment his fingers gripped her own. He seemed just as relieved as anyone knowing that Harry was recovering, and more like himself.

"I can hear you, you know," Harry grunted, stopping for a moment.

Hermione blushed, but Neville's grin merely widened. "'Course you can, Harry," he replied, "and that's what matters."

Harry snorted. "Don't get all sentimental on me. We're not done yet."

Neither of them had to ask what he meant. Hermione's stomach tightened knowing that one last showdown with Voldemort would be fought before all of this was over. But she rallied herself quickly and raised her chin, opening her mouth to reply—

And with a suddenness that startled all of them, Harry's knees buckled and he fell where he stood, crying out in pain. No—not just pain; there was fear mixed in his outcry, a terrible fear born from true horror, and his hands shot up to the lightning scar on his forehead, which was suddenly shining a deep, angry red. Hermione shot out of her seat with a cry of his name, but Neville grabbed hold of her before she could run, shouting out himself in his shock and fear, and still Harry seemed to writhe on the floor, under some nameless onslaught of pain. White, Madame Pomfrey rushed to Harry's side and knelt, but it was clear she could do nothing.

"Granger!" she barked. "Go and fetch a Sleeping Potion. Quickly!"

But Hermione balked. She had seen these things before, had witnessed Harry's visions, and knew that no amount of potions or spells was going to help.

"Granger!"

Hermione shook her head. "That won't help!" she exclaimed, feeling terror pound in her veins; but she shook herself sternly. This was no time to simply lose it! She floundered for a moment, unsure of what to do—but then abruptly she fell to her knees beside Harry and, quite suddenly, slapped him soundly across the cheek.

It was a blow without power, just enough to jolt him, and it managed to snap him out of his pain—with a hoarse gasp of relief, he collapsed limply onto the stone floor, his eyes watering. "V- Voldemort—" he whispered, very white in the face. "Voldemort knows where I am—he- he'll come!" His hands were trembling as he rubbed at the scar. "He's angry," he breathed, and something in his tone told them he wasn't _just_ furious.

The sound of the doors swinging open made them all jump, and Neville and Hermione looked up to find Snape—_Snape_, of all people—walking swiftly up the room, his face drawn and dark.

"Potter!" he barked, and Harry flinched back. "What did you see?"

"Severus!" Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, and her glare was fierce as she rounded on the potions master. "You can't come barging in here and frightening my patient-!"

"Forgive me if I did so, Poppy," Snape snarled between clenched teeth, "but this is of the utmost importance. Now, Potter, _what did you see?_"

Hermione helped Harry up into a sitting position, and she could feel him trembling. "I- I saw—Voldemort—"

"Potter!"

"Sorry, sir," Harry said in a small voice. "_He_ was in a room, I couldn't see anything specific, and he was… torturing Lucius Malfoy. He said that Malfoy had failed him again."

"And?" Snape prompted.

Harry shuddered, but rallied himself. "And he said that if Malfoy failed to fulfill his job again, then he would be stuck in that room forever, which he built specifically for me— for "Potter" he said. And it was like he knew I was there! He _knew_! And he _laughed_!" He was trembling harder than ever, clearly frightened by the implication of Voldemort's threat, and not even Hermione's presence could soothe him.

That job, shockingly, fell to the professor himself. Snape's eyes flashed with irritation. "Losing yourself to panic will do no one good, Potter," he said sharply. "Pull yourself together. Now!"

"Professor!" Hermione exclaimed, outraged that he could be so heartless at a time like this.

"Harry."

The name stopped Hermione in her tracks, and she and Neville looked at each other with equal looks of shock. They could not have heard that properly, there was no possible way—

But they had, indeed, heard Professor Severus Snape call Harry Potter by his first name. The potions master was ignoring the others and simply looking down at the trembling wizard with something different in his eyes. "Close your mind. You know how to." Even his voice, while still caustic, had softened a little.

And even more shockingly, Harry _obeyed_ him without arguing, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself. Hermione's jaw almost dropped in her surprise, and as one she and Neville looked up at Snape, whose expression had gone quite forbidden again.

"I will go and explain this new vision to the Headmaster, Potter," he said, ignoring the others, and he turned on his heel and started to leave. "No doubt he will want to speak of this with you."

Neville waited until Snape had shut the door behind him before rounding on Harry, his expression blatant disbelief. "What the _hell_ was that about?!"

"Was he just _nice_ to you?" Hermione exclaimed, looking almost nauseous at the thought.

Harry managed a wry grin, but he was still too pale to be perfectly fine again, and his scar still stood out livid through his long bangs. "I think he just gave away his position," he whispered, looking regretful, and allowed Hermione and Neville to haul him to his feet. Madame Pomfrey tutted, her expression severe, and started to perform diagnostic spells to see if he had managed to hurt himself by his fall.

"Before the end of sixth year," Harry began quietly, sitting in his bed, "Dumbledore was concerned about Voldemort's hold on my mind—you know, our connection." Hermione nodded, and Neville, although confused, simply accepted it. "He wanted me to learn Occlumency again, and had me doing lessons with Snape again." Hermione nodded again, remembering the nights in which Harry would go to the dungeons for "Remedial Potions". "But I never got the hang of it."

"Of course," she sighed ruefully. He managed a rather shame-faced smile before continuing. "The visions just continued, though I was at least able to meagerly shield myself from some of the pain. Of course by this time I started to realize that maybe, since I couldn't stop them, I could make the visions useful. So Snape and I started a- well, I guess you could call it a correspondence between us. Since he's still spying on the Death Eaters—"

"He's a _spy_?" Neville hissed, his eyes wide.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I know. I didn't believe it at first. But I would tell him what I saw and he would confirm worked pretty well between us, and he was still trying to teach me Occlumency when I—when Voldemort finally caught me. Doesn't stop him from being a greasy bastard, though," he added quickly, seeing Hermione's look of incredulity, and she had to grin.

"But how did he know you had had a vision so quickly?" she asked, finally realizing that that was what was bothering her.

When Harry only looked at her, she realized. "Oh." Without conscious thought she rubbed at her arm, where she knew that Snape's Dark Mark would be. She knew enough about Death Eaters now that she knew that they felt their Master's fury through their Marks.

"What concerns me most is the mentions of that room," Neville remarked, his eyes dark with thought and anger. "Whatever it is, it can't be good."

"It could be anything," Hermione said softly. Harry shuddered. "Sorry, Harry—you must not want to think about it."

"It sounds too much like the room I was in… before," he replied quietly, refusing to meet either of their gazes. Both Neville and Hermione stilled—Harry had not once talked or even so much as mentioned his time as Voldemort's prisoner, least of all where he had been. Neville never spoke of it either, but Hermione knew that it had been a terrible place. "It was like a tomb."

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The boy was protected at Hogwarts. Voldemort was no fool about that. For the moment Harry Potter had found sanctuary with Albus Dumbledore, and there was no way to take back the boy until they found a way through the wards.

But the Death Eaters would eventually find a way—and when that happened then no force on Earth would stop them from taking back what was theirs. What was _his_. Potter was claimed, and Lord Voldemort always got what he wanted.

Smiling a smile that held no humor, Voldemort looked at the room he had prepared for his escaped bird and laughed.

Potter was going to be his—his forever, once they got the boy _here_.


End file.
